On a beautiful rainy August day
The Summer's simmered aggrandize
And the plants withered in size
As the mercury refused to slip
Life longed for a long dip
The sun smiled its way
And the airs lost their day
Then ...God's finger touched a white
Water's poured by His might
It rained a beautiful rain
On the mountains, forests & my lane
An airy feeling crossed us all
The orchads and fruits had had a ball
Spunks warmed and the sods sang
I could smell the earthly tang
Far away...A petite lil gal drenched her mane
Hopping along the hills, somewhere in that rain.
Sameer Bhat Aug 23, 2001
Thursday, August 23, 2001
Friday, July 06, 2001
My friend
Think of me sometimes
As the oceans and mountains part us
Hold on to my rhymes
As the flowers hold the truss
You are there and I lay here
Dabbling all alone
Ye are far, yet so near
Mingled in my tune
Had I wings, I would fly
Hover in the land of kings
for you, on the sly
I can hear ye speak with that charm
The affection that keeps hearts so warm ...
Come back now you affable lil swain
But for you, it won't snow and it won't rain.
SAMEER BHAT June 5,2001
As the oceans and mountains part us
Hold on to my rhymes
As the flowers hold the truss
You are there and I lay here
Dabbling all alone
Ye are far, yet so near
Mingled in my tune
Had I wings, I would fly
Hover in the land of kings
for you, on the sly
I can hear ye speak with that charm
The affection that keeps hearts so warm ...
Come back now you affable lil swain
But for you, it won't snow and it won't rain.
SAMEER BHAT June 5,2001
Sunday, June 24, 2001
My good old chum
An voice came and touched me fine
A loving chum came on the line
Heard him after a long while
Felt the flowers and waters smile
His knock stirred some divine streak
I remembered our 'hide and seek'
I missed the loving times.
Those dulcet school rhymes
The oddity, that love, those paths
I recollected our impish baths
My friend... the same he
Despite his pelf
The same countenance
That real self
My beats flutter, his do throb
Thy sweet memories make me sob
You'll be there, in my thoughts
I pine for the love you exude in lots.
Sameer Bhat
A loving chum came on the line
Heard him after a long while
Felt the flowers and waters smile
His knock stirred some divine streak
I remembered our 'hide and seek'
I missed the loving times.
Those dulcet school rhymes
The oddity, that love, those paths
I recollected our impish baths
My friend... the same he
Despite his pelf
The same countenance
That real self
My beats flutter, his do throb
Thy sweet memories make me sob
You'll be there, in my thoughts
I pine for the love you exude in lots.
Sameer Bhat
Friday, June 22, 2001
Tryst in the Air
A sweet rendevous, that never materialized
I was all jovial
I don't know why
Someone kept me merry
Don't ask me who
A ferment held me high
Won't tell ye which
A tryst was in the air
Don't enquire where
A slick feeling touched me soft
Cannot explain what
The light didn't reach me
I don't know why
Sameer Bhat Jun 22, 2001
I was all jovial
I don't know why
Someone kept me merry
Don't ask me who
A ferment held me high
Won't tell ye which
A tryst was in the air
Don't enquire where
A slick feeling touched me soft
Cannot explain what
The light didn't reach me
I don't know why
Sameer Bhat Jun 22, 2001
Sunday, June 10, 2001
Kashmir....my vale!
My loving vale, what makes you cry
Why do your airs sigh
What ails thee mountains
What cessates ye fountains
How did the blossoms cease
And where is that morning breeze
Who set thy shrines aglow
And why doesn't your Jhelum flow
Aren't my pines lank.
And why did my devotion sank
None of those holidaying crows
And none of the bracing snows
Those joyful sweet songs
Are they replaced by our wrongs
That edifying birdie's chirping
Shadowed by the red's dripping
Our warm nuptial surges
Mellowed by the painful dirges
Shall cool zephyrs kiss ye again
Will groovy buds adorn ye again
Sameer Bhat
Tuesday, December 28, 1999
Kashmir, Circa 1999
The life of a Kashmiri in the guns and booms of the difficult militancy years
The last time around when it snowed in this part of the world, we faced a power outage for some twenty odd days. At a stetch. More than six million people, young and old shivered alike in the dead cold. We must indeed be a poor lot, I told myself. Despite having some surreal power projects, every alternate night -- for good part of the Gregorian calendar -- the compatriots of this beautiful land do not get to see the twentieth century marvel called electricity. In the life of an average Kashmiri, this is only normal.
Forlorn faces, failed aspirations, bloodied egos, knave images... this is a Kashmiri for you. Deprived of every thing by a political system that is too shady to be called corrupt. We stand on a crossroad where there is a carbine on the left and cartridge on the right. The future is foggy. This place has ceased to be a paradise.
Damned by indifferent times
that created dastards out of the bravest,
by violence that has painted the woods red,
by grotesque killings
that chill your spine
by deafening booms
which mellow the birds' chirping
Yesterday, in the sweet hours of the morning, still in my bed, I heard a distant announcement. I soon learnt that it is a crackdown (military search operation), an inseparable part of Kashmiri vocabulary now. It is a dreaded cordon & search operation by the army. It means hurry or you'll be bashed. It is winters -- ice and snow. Everyone is flocked like sheep. There is an emotional bitterness about the same, which a non-Kashmiri may find hard to understand. I feel bad for the old & sick. There are no concessions, everyone has to come out and assemble!
You can be picked up for any or no reason at all. Many languish in temporary prisons for no offense. Just on an officer’s whim. Most of the victims however are innocent. The army follows a standard procedure, I am told. I think they do so at the jagged altar of human inconvenience.
Kashmir has lost its sheen. The Kashmiryat one could boast of has long gone. Those lovely edifying words and warm looks have given to the ogling of the evil. The turbulent times have taught people many things. They die thousand times a day and for each day of the year. Souls are bruised. It baffles me to see people being slaughtered. How can one manage to smirk when death beans are pumped in a fellow human's heart? That too in a paradise!
The Indians blame the separatists for this rancor. The separatist leaders accuse India. Journalists are listless. I think an average Kashmiri has a gut feeling that the Indian security agencies are terribly illiterate to handle the situation. The militants are without doubt a provoked lot . Brain-washed, terror-machines. No one tunes in to either the Indian or Pakistani state media. There are only truths garnished with half truths. Eyewitnesses are made to believe something that never really happens.
Each passing day for the past many years I saw numerous people getting injured, scores getting handicapped for a life time. An average twelve people get killed every day. Some score full of mothers weep & weep bitterly after every gun fire , some shy sisters run barefoot after coffins’, some best friends get separated forever, some good people get to carry their neighbors to graveyards everyday. The year is 1999. I am still in my teens and wonder how many more wails will fill our airs?
Everyone seems to crave for the illusive peace. In the heart of the hearts every Kashmiri nourishes a dream, a dream for a better future, for economic viability, a veracious concern that comes from deep within about our forgotten culture and the pleasant time that was. All the people --- children, young and old want peace to return to their lives.
Grandparents tarry for the day when there will be tintinnabulation of the Hindu temples. They believe they can run in the snows, between the glades and gazelles of this beauteous place with their departed pals. They remember the times when Hindu fathers selected the trousseau for Muslim daughters, when Muslims would pray in the mosques for some sick Hindu. They still believe that people are really good at heart.
I wish the boulevards to bloom again, nightingales to sing again, brooks to dance on the cobbles once more. But will the din cease? Will beams of peace ever bask us?
Right now, all this seems a little yonder.
Sameer Shaban
Winter 1999
sameershaban20@yahoo.com
The last time around when it snowed in this part of the world, we faced a power outage for some twenty odd days. At a stetch. More than six million people, young and old shivered alike in the dead cold. We must indeed be a poor lot, I told myself. Despite having some surreal power projects, every alternate night -- for good part of the Gregorian calendar -- the compatriots of this beautiful land do not get to see the twentieth century marvel called electricity. In the life of an average Kashmiri, this is only normal.
Forlorn faces, failed aspirations, bloodied egos, knave images... this is a Kashmiri for you. Deprived of every thing by a political system that is too shady to be called corrupt. We stand on a crossroad where there is a carbine on the left and cartridge on the right. The future is foggy. This place has ceased to be a paradise.
Damned by indifferent times
that created dastards out of the bravest,
by violence that has painted the woods red,
by grotesque killings
that chill your spine
by deafening booms
which mellow the birds' chirping
Yesterday, in the sweet hours of the morning, still in my bed, I heard a distant announcement. I soon learnt that it is a crackdown (military search operation), an inseparable part of Kashmiri vocabulary now. It is a dreaded cordon & search operation by the army. It means hurry or you'll be bashed. It is winters -- ice and snow. Everyone is flocked like sheep. There is an emotional bitterness about the same, which a non-Kashmiri may find hard to understand. I feel bad for the old & sick. There are no concessions, everyone has to come out and assemble!
You can be picked up for any or no reason at all. Many languish in temporary prisons for no offense. Just on an officer’s whim. Most of the victims however are innocent. The army follows a standard procedure, I am told. I think they do so at the jagged altar of human inconvenience.
Kashmir has lost its sheen. The Kashmiryat one could boast of has long gone. Those lovely edifying words and warm looks have given to the ogling of the evil. The turbulent times have taught people many things. They die thousand times a day and for each day of the year. Souls are bruised. It baffles me to see people being slaughtered. How can one manage to smirk when death beans are pumped in a fellow human's heart? That too in a paradise!
The Indians blame the separatists for this rancor. The separatist leaders accuse India. Journalists are listless. I think an average Kashmiri has a gut feeling that the Indian security agencies are terribly illiterate to handle the situation. The militants are without doubt a provoked lot . Brain-washed, terror-machines. No one tunes in to either the Indian or Pakistani state media. There are only truths garnished with half truths. Eyewitnesses are made to believe something that never really happens.
Each passing day for the past many years I saw numerous people getting injured, scores getting handicapped for a life time. An average twelve people get killed every day. Some score full of mothers weep & weep bitterly after every gun fire , some shy sisters run barefoot after coffins’, some best friends get separated forever, some good people get to carry their neighbors to graveyards everyday. The year is 1999. I am still in my teens and wonder how many more wails will fill our airs?
Everyone seems to crave for the illusive peace. In the heart of the hearts every Kashmiri nourishes a dream, a dream for a better future, for economic viability, a veracious concern that comes from deep within about our forgotten culture and the pleasant time that was. All the people --- children, young and old want peace to return to their lives.
Grandparents tarry for the day when there will be tintinnabulation of the Hindu temples. They believe they can run in the snows, between the glades and gazelles of this beauteous place with their departed pals. They remember the times when Hindu fathers selected the trousseau for Muslim daughters, when Muslims would pray in the mosques for some sick Hindu. They still believe that people are really good at heart.
I wish the boulevards to bloom again, nightingales to sing again, brooks to dance on the cobbles once more. But will the din cease? Will beams of peace ever bask us?
Right now, all this seems a little yonder.
Sameer Shaban
Winter 1999
sameershaban20@yahoo.com
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